


a beginning song

by Rhovanel



Category: Original Work, Sons & Daughters - The Decemberists (Song)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hope, Introspection, Post-Apocalypse, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:57:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: For the tide always turns, and the day always dawns. That is how the world works.





	a beginning song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/gifts).



_In the beginning there was light and air and water. The people were happy, and their lands flourished, and their children grew with laughter on their lips and joy in their hearts._

_But time is a ripple on the water: the same pattern moving outwards, over and over and over again. Darkness follows light, winter follows fall, and death follows life. That is how the world works._

_War fell upon the land and brought famine and hardship in its wake. The earth dried to dust, and the water soured, and the air grew thick with ash and smoke._

_The people split into three: some took to the air, some to the sea, and some to the desert. They stripped their homes of precious metals, and their trees of their bark, and their fields of crops and seeds. They became a wandering people, children of the sand, of the salt, and of the sky. But they carried with them the belief that their paths would lead them back, that their journeys would end where they began._

_For the tide always turns, and the day always dawns. That is how the world works._

********

Mera becomes the leader of her people when she is twenty-three years old. 

The desert is all she has ever known. She knows its extremes: the oppressive heat during the day, the freezing cold at night. She knows its variations: how no two stretches of sand are quite the same, how every rocky formation is different than the one before. And she knows its beauty: the soft quiet of the nighttime, the gentle slopes of the dunes, the endless, immense sky. 

The desert is her only home.

Well, not quite, perhaps. There is another home, one present only in the stories they tell around the fires at night, stories that are passed down through the generations. The stories tell of sunlight through green leaves, of air heavy with perfume, and of a wide river with flowing water.

Mera loves the stories. She doesn’t know if she believes them, but she loves them all the same. She loves to recite them in the evenings, watching as they calm the worry lines on her brothers and sisters’ brows. She loves the shape and the rhythm of them: the way they flow across her tongue like a pebble worn smooth by touch, or what she imagines the great river might feel like, gentle but sure.

While she talks, she often holds her _Cinnamomum_ seed in her fingers, turning it over and over as she spins her familiar tales. Her aunts had given her the seed the day she became the leader of the caravan. 

“This is the last of the cinnamon trees, Meravas,” her aunts had said. “One day you will plant them again on the shores of the river; or your sons and daughters; or their daughters and sons.”

She thinks of it often, as she leads her people through the desert. What it would be like to stay in one place long enough to watch something grow from the ground.

At night, she likes to lie on the dunes with her eyes on the heavens. She suspects her ancestors thought the desert empty, an endless stretch of barren space. The early stories tell of such things, of hardship and resistance and bitter grief. But there is a safety in enormity, Mera knows, and more importantly, there is possibility. Vastness is proof that there is so much out there, more than any one person could ever hope to touch. 

Every night, she watches the darkness roll in from the east. There are three stars, right above the horizon, the first reminder that the darkness is punctuated by light. She watches for those stars again and again, and with every revolution, she thinks they inch just that bit closer together.

She watches the stars, and she wonders what else there might be in this world.

********

_The caravan captain has sand in her mouth._

_In every direction she looks, she sees dunes stretching away into the horizon. They rise and fall in gentle slopes, endless and eternal. Sometimes she wonders if this is all there ever is or ever has been, just the desert under the night sky._

_There is so much space between the earth and the stars._

_She sprinkles cinnamon into the dough they cook into small sweetbreads. The precious spice coats her mouth, sweet and hot. This is what home tastes like, she tells her brothers and sisters._

_But she can still feel the grit of sand on her lips._

_The caravan captain asked the stars: “how do I know which way to go?”_

_“Follow us,” replied the stars._

_“But stars,” the captain said, “you are not always there. You hide behind the sun, and you dip below the horizon. How do I learn to follow when I cannot see the way?”_

_“You don’t,” said the stars. “That is the whole point.”_

_And the caravan captain took her blindness and called it hope._

********

When Mera is thirty-two years old, she leads her people to where the desert meets the sea. Her brothers and sisters run to and fro along the crashing waves, laughing and splashing. They have never seen so much water.

But the water is salt and the waves are violent, and even on the edge of the world, the horizon is still so very far away.

As she contemplates the water, she sees something glinting on the horizon - _one two, one two, one two_. This is more than a trick of the light, she thinks. This has purpose behind it. She rushes for her pack where she carries another precious relic: a strange, thin sheet of metal, reflective and shiny. She rarely takes it out in the desert. In the sunshine, she’d blind herself in an instant.

But now, she holds it above her head, catching the sun in a reflected pattern.  _One two, one two, one two_. Then she sits down on the sand and waits, watching the waves roll gently onto the shore.

Sure enough, a small boat appears on the horizon, growing closer and closer until it stops just before the water gets too shallow. People begin to disembark, striding through the water to the shore, led by a tall woman in brown leathers.

 _The children of the sea_ , Mera thinks, her heart hammering in her chest. 

The captain has long dark hair. She wears in a single braid that swings when she walks, her hips rolling with every step like the crest and fall of the waves.

Mera raises her fist to her chest in the traditional greeting. “Tidings, sister. May the light guide your journey…”

“And may the darkness lead you home,” the captain finishes. “So,” she says, as the rest of her crew join Mera’s people, talking excitedly. “The children of the sand survived.”

“We did,” Mera says. “I think it has been a very long time since our people met.”

“And well met,” the captain says. “My name is Tavia.”

“Meravas,” she replies. “Or Mera.”

“Well, Mera,” Tavia says. “I think this calls for a celebration.”

They build a bonfire on the beach as the night rolls in, huge and roaring. Tavia and Mera sit together, watching their people chatter excitedly, asking questions and telling tales.

“So,” Tavia says. “What have you been doing, all these years?”

“Surviving,” Mera replies.

“Is that all?” Tavia smiles, her eyes shining. “That sounds terribly dull.”

“Of course not,” Mera begins defensively, but stops as Tavia begins to laugh.

“I jest,” she says. “My, the desert makes you serious.”

Mera turns her eyes to the heavens. She can barely see the stars through the billowing smoke of the bonfire, but she knows they’re there. “I suppose I have been watching the stars,” she says softly.

Tavia looks delighted. “Ah, so you are a star-gazer too?”

Mera looks back at her, a warm feeling spreading through her chest. “There are three of them, right in-”

“The south-east quadrant,” Tavia interrupts.

“They are aligning, aren’t they?” 

“That they are,” Tavia says. “I have been watching them for years, whenever I have the night’s watch.”

“Where do you think they lead?”

“Lead?” Tavia asks. She flicks her braid over her shoulder with a sigh. “Nowhere, I suspect.”

“You do not consider them an omen?”

“Our people have been travelling for a long time, Mera. We have found nothing yet.”

“The stories remind us that the tide-” 

Tavia snorts.

“You don’t believe the stories?” Mera asks.

“They are stories,” Tavia replies, with a wave of her hand. “Do you?”

“I believe that they offer clarity when they can, and comfort when they must.”

“So you don’t think they hold truth?”

“The truth is in the telling,” Mera says.

Tavia looks at her thoughtfully. “You have an interesting philosophy,” she says.

“Well, what do you think?” Mera asks, tired of the questions. 

Tavia pauses for a moment, then leaps to her feet. “I think we should dance.”

“What?” Mera splutters. 

“Hardwin!” Tavia calls across the fire. “A song!” A man strikes up a jaunty tune on a small stringed instrument. 

Tavia holds out her hand. “Dance with me,” she says, and Mera is so surprised that she lets herself be pulled to her feet.

“This is what I think,” Tavia says, as she spins her around. “I think that there is no future, just as there is no past.”

“That is a very poor philosophy,” Mera snorts.

“Every horizon looks the same,” Tavia says. “Surely it is the same in the desert - the way back is identical to the way forward.”

“You’re wrong,” Mera replies, a smile on her face. She disentangles herself from Tavia, turning to point to the east, where the three stars are rising over the edge of the ocean. “You won’t find that on every horizon.”

Tavia sighs and begins to speak, but Mera shushes her with a gesture. “That’s our path home,” she says. “And I’ll meet you there.”

“You are very certain,” Tavia says with a frown.

“Perhaps,” Mera replies. “Or perhaps I am just good at telling stories.”

Later, when she watches Tavia and her people return to the sea and she turns her own people back to the desert, she thinks that every story is a promise, in the end, even the ones that seem finished.

********

_The sea captain has salt on her skin. In every direction she looks, she sees the expanse of the ocean, waves rising and falling, cresting and breaking. Sometimes she wonders if this is all there ever is or ever has been, just the ocean under the stars._

_There is so much space between the sky and the sea._

_She sprinkles cinnamon into the water they use to bathe in. The precious scent perfumes her skin and hair, spicy and earthy. This is what home smells like, she tells her brothers and sisters._

_But she can still smell the sting of salt on her hands._

_The sea captain asked the horizon: “how do I know which way to go?”_

_“Follow me,” replied the horizon._

_“But horizon,” the captain said, “you are impossible to touch. Even if I sailed the world for an eternity, I would never arrive. How do I learn how to reach you?”_

_“You don’t,” said the horizon. “That is the whole point.”_

_And the sea captain took her longing and called it hope._

********

When Mera is forty-one years old, she leads her people to the top of a mountain. The air is cooler and there are clouds in the sky, strange and fluffy and white. Her brothers and sisters watch the clouds with wonder, faces turned to the heavens as water begins to fall from the sky.

But the rain is brief and the clouds are fleeting, and even on the top of the world, the horizon is still so far away.

As Mera contemplates the clouds, she sees something flickering in the sky: one two, one two, one two. Her hands shake with anticipation as she reaches for her pack, and she holds her relic aloft, twisting it in a rhythm that matches her beating heart: one two, one two, one two.

The dirigible lands in a cloud of smoke. It is covered in the same metal she holds in her hands, and she squints as it catches the sunlight, raising a hand to shield her eyes. When she lowers it, a group of people are approaching. 

_The children of the sky_ , Mera thinks, her breath catching in her lungs.

The captain has tight curly hair, springing wildly in every direction around her head. She lifts her goggles to rest within her crown of hair, revealing brown eyes alight with curiosity.

Mera raises her fist to her chest in the traditional greeting. “Tidings, sister. May the light guide your journey…”

“Yes, yes, darkness, home, et cetera,” the captain finishes. She reaches across and grips Mera’s upper arm. “The children of the sand are very strong,” she says, prodding her bicep. “Is it all that sunlight? Or is walking across sand exhausting? Let me see your legs!”

“Um,” Mera begins, but the captain is already talking again.

“I have seen the desert, from the window of the ship. It shines like golden thread. Is that what it looks like from the ground? You must tell me everything!” 

“Um,” Mera says again.

“Oh, my apologies,” the captain says. She holds out her hand. “My name is Celerity.”

“Meravas,” she replies. “Or Mera.”

“Mera,” Celerity says. “What does that mean?”

Mera glances behind her, where she can Celerity’s people peppering her brothers and sisters with their own questions. “The children of the sky are very inquisitive,” she says with a shake of her head.

“And you are not?” Celerity asks. 

“There is something I am curious about,” Mera replies. She points to the east. 

“Oh, the three stars?” Celerity replies. “What about them?”

“Do you think they’re aligning?”

“Yes!” she replies. “Have you been thinking about rotational physics too?”

“I…cannot say that I have,” Mera says. “But I have been thinking of portents and promises. I think the stars are a reminder that the tide is turning, just like in the stories.”

“The stories?” Celerity laughs. “The stories are interesting as an exercise in narrative construction, but you cannot honestly think they are real.”

“Why not?” Mera replies. “You have been travelling the skies, have you not? You must have seen other lands, other places.”

“Of course,” Celerity says slowly. “But we cannot live there. There are no dwelling places left in the world.”

“How can you be so sure?” 

“None of my tests suggest that anything has changed in the atmosphere.”

“Perhaps we are the ones who need to change,” Mera says. “You must want know if our home is real? What makes up the soil, and what lives in the river?” She pauses for a moment, then takes a gamble. “Don’t you want to plant that seed of yours?”

Celerity looks at her thoughtfully, then begins to laugh. “The children of the desert are cunning,” she says. “I like you.”

Mera can feel herself smile as she grasps Celerity’s wrist, pointing their hands to the east. “That’s our path home,” she says. “And I’ll meet you there.”

Celerity frowns. “But what if you are mistaken?” she asks.

Mera shrugs. “Then so be it. But in the meantime, it makes a good story.”

Later, when she watches Celerity and her people return to their airship and she turns her own people to travel back down the mountain, she thinks that every story is an answer, in the end, even if it takes a lifetime to arrive. 

********

_The dirigible captain has smoke in her eyes. In every direction she looks, she sees clouds forming and dissolving and moving in the wind. Sometimes she wonders if this is all there ever is or ever has been, just a ship floating through the sky._

_There is so much space between the earth and the universe._

_She ties cinnamon into wreaths with small, cotton bands. They brighten the walls and the corners of the dirigible they live in, warm and rich. This is what home looks like, she tells her brothers and sisters._

_But she can still see the endless white of the world beyond._

_The dirigible captain asked the wind: “how do I know which way to go?”_

_“Follow me,” replied the wind._

_“But wind,” the captain said, “you are unpredictable. You change direction at your will, and your force is different every time. How do I learn how to understand you?”_

_“You don’t,” said the wind. “That is the whole point.”_

_And the dirigible captain took her doubt and called it hope._

********

When Mera is fifty years old, she leads her people out of the desert. She follows the stars to the east until they find a large river that flows into the sea.

It is not the same as the stories. There are few trees, and the wind is bitter, but the water is clean and fresh and plentiful. It is not the same as the stories, but it might be something else. There is possibility in uncertainty, and courage in change, and Mera drops her pack onto the riverbank with a purposeful thud. 

At night, she sits on the riverbank and watches the gentle rhythm of the water. She reaches out and runs her hand across the surface, smiling as the droplets cling to her skin. She touches the reflection of the stars in the dark mirror of the river, and she wonders if her dreams are finally close enough to touch.

She stops, and she breathes, and she waits for what else there might be in this world. 

Tavia comes sailing up from the west. She has white streaks in her long dark hair, but she smiles when she sees Mera, spinning her around on the banks of the river.

Celerity comes floating down from the north. She has wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and across her brow, but she smiles when she sees Mera, peppering her with questions about the water and the soil.

They strip the dirigibles of their aluminium coating. They take the planks from the hulls of the ships. They unstrap the canvas covers of the caravans, and together, they build homes on the edge of the water.

Finally, they plant their _Cinnamomum_ seeds on the banks of the river. They add sand and salt and rainwater to the soil, a memory of the past and a promise for the future.

Mera knows she will not live to see the trees grow to adulthood, to feel the sunlight shine through those leaves. But she takes Tavia’s hand in her left and Celerity’s in her right, and she thinks that home is people, in the end, and that a story is only ever as good as those who tell it and those who listen. 

********

_In the end there was light and air and water. The water fell from the skies, and the trees grew from the ground, and the wind blew in from the sea._

_The people made a new home on the edge of the water. They built their homes with the scraps they carried, and they planted their seeds in the riverbanks. And while they waited for their trees to grow once more, for their roots to stretch and settle, they ate cinnamon biscuits as a promise for what was to come._

_But they did not forget their years of journeying, for the sand, and the salt, and the sky were in their blood._

_The children of the sky asked questions of the world around them, finding joy in the things that did not make sense._

_The children of the sea taught music and dance, offering hands that caught you just before you were about to fall._

_The children of the sand told fables and stories, stories that were bright enough to see by even when all other lights seem lost._

_Because the darkness turns into dawn, and the winter melts into spring, and every ending is a beginning in disguise._

_That is how the world works._

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Morbane for the 2019 Jukebox exchange, who was taken by the hopeful tone of "Sons & Daughters", and its images of tradition and family. These are also my favourite parts of this song and I loved the opportunity to explore this world and its heritage - thank you for the great prompts, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The title is actually the title of a different Decemberists song, from their sorely underrated album _What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World._


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